


Unexpected

by 221b_hound



Series: Unkissed [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anderson surprises John, Anderson trying not to be a dick, Holding Hands, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, They are professionals damnit, socially awkward Anderson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:30:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't really have a lot of time for Sergeant Anderson. That's what makes it so surprising when Anderson wishes to spend a little time being nice to John. In not entirely unrelated matters, Sherlock decides it's time to be just a little demonstrative in public.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [出人意表](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2297516) by [shawnordaisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shawnordaisy/pseuds/shawnordaisy)



> I just wanted to extend my exploration of some ideas in Undeserved. Next stop - the Xmas story!

The whispers were irritating, and unprofessional. Not everyone did it of course. Most of the Met didn’t actually care. Sherlock Holmes had been an annoying know-it-all before he died, he’d been proven by even his detractors to be a genuine know-it-all while he was dead, and he was such a fucking know-it-all that he’d actually faked his death and then come back to piss them all off and solve the unsolvable all over again. When he wasn’t being an utter dick, most of the Met was kind of grudgingly impressed.

And really, when he was working, you’d hardly know that Holmes and that deceptively mild-mannered and rather intense doctor friend of his were actually boyfriends. Until that whole thing with the fire at that veteran’s house, and really, who gave a toss?

One or two people, it seemed. One or two who liked to mutter juvenile things just below the level of hearing when the pair of them came in to do some paperwork for the DI.

Not below Sherlock’s level of hearing, of course. Sherlock had acute hearing, and he could read lips, but he did not care a whit for the opinions of morons.

The doctor heard mutterings and could guess at their content, because he’d been hearing mutterings of one kind or another about him and Sherlock – or just him, when he was the lone fool who still believed after the genius had apparently killed himself – almost from the start. But John had promised himself to stop getting into strops about it, and to never ever punch someone over it. Even if Sherlock did find it inexplicably charming when John got all protective like that.

The two of them strode through the station to Lestrade’s office, pointedly ignoring the jerk in the corner who coughed the word ‘bottom’ into his hand on their way past.

“Shut up, McLaren, and grow up,” sniped a familiar tenor voice nearby.

John darted a startled look sideways, wondering why Anderson, of all people, was standing up for them, but Anderson had moved off, refusing to meet his gaze.

Fifteen minutes later, John was alone in Lestrade’s office, reading over his latest statement to sign. Sherlock had gone off with the DI to dig into a cold case Sherlock had recently taken an interest in. The door opened and he looked up, smiling, expecting to see Sherlock or Greg. Instead, there was Anderson, bearing paperwork to place on the DI’s in-tray.

With the merest nod – the barest civility he could muster – John acknowledged Anderson’s presence and went back to reading the statement. He tapped the end of his pen on the table, then stilled his hand, not wanting to betray his agitation.

“Ah. Hi.”

Tap, tap. “Greg will be back shortly, I’m sure,” said John.

“Oh, I don’t need to talk to him right away.”

“Hmm.”  John lifted the pen and scrawled his signature at the bottom of the statement.

“Ah… so… you…”

John looked up with a ‘you still here?’ expression assembled on his features.

Anderson cleared his throat. “So. Anyway. Congratulations.”

“For?”

“I mean. You and Holmes.” He swallowed and, good lord, was he _blushing?_ “That you… that it worked out. Between you. After Moriarty and… well, I’m sorry about… things. About the things I… anyway. I just wanted to say that. I’m glad for you two. That it’s worked out.”

John blinked, puzzled, at Anderson, who swallowed convulsively and shuffled backwards towards the door.

“What the fuck does that mean?” demanded John.

The question caught Anderson unawares. “Ah… congratulations?”

“I get that. But from _you_? Why?”

Anderson pulled a face, his usual sour expression, but instead of the usual snide comment, he cleared his throat and stared past John’s right shoulder. “The other week. You two. In the ambulance. After the fire.”

_Oh. That._

“I… ah… you know, I know you both think I’m a dick. I don’t always…come across well. I get…” He stumbled and cleared his throat again. “I’m in forensics, you know.” Anderson tried on a sheepish smile to see if that worked any better. “I’m not that good with living people.”

“Not much good with the dead ones, either, apparently,” observed John unkindly, but Anderson flinched and instantly John wished he hadn’t said it. “Sorry,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Anderson shrugged. “All I mean is… I know we’ve had our differences, and I know he pisses me off, but after everything that happened… I know now he’s right. He’s better than me at my own job. It rankles but… he’s not a fake. I know that now.” He met John’s gaze and flinched again at the steady, questioning, unforgiving gaze. “You running into that burning house to get him, and the two of you in that ambulance after…” He swallowed again. “It was a rotten couple of years, I know, and I know what you were like when we all thought he was dead, and the DI was worried sick about you even after he got back, he said you hardly spoke to anyone, and Holmes’d come in here moping about like a wet weekend and pretending everything was okay and it wasn’t. Christ, he was even polite to me once, so I knew he wasn’t really okay.”

John’s eyes widened and Anderson took a deep breath.

“But the two of you in that ambulance, when he was… well… making sure you were okay, and you were looking out for him, and I can tell you that nobody has _ever_ looked at me like that, the way you two looked at each other. Not _ever_. I’ve thought I was in love; I’ve thought someone loved me. But I’ve never seen anything like you two. I admit, I envy you. All that crazy shit that happened, and you got each other back, and I just…”

The door opened suddenly, and Greg and Sherlock stood there looking at Anderson in surprise. Anderson ducked his head, apologised, and scooted out of the room as fast as he could.

After Anderson had gone, Greg raised an eyebrow at John. John shook his head, because he hardly believed it and had no intention of discussing it.

“All signed, Greg.” John shoved the statement across the table at him.

“Great. Now, if you’ll sign yours, Sherlock.”

“I have to re-read it first,” said Sherlock.

“You never re-read your statements. You claim it’s a waste of your valuable time. You hardly read them the first time.”

“This time I’m re-reading it. White coffee, thanks. Two sugars. White, no sugar for John.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know how you take your coffee,” grumbled Greg, but he went out to get it anyway.

John gave Sherlock a speculative look. “You only ever skim over the first read. You _never_ read those things a second time.”

Sherlock glanced over the succinct document, flipped to the last page and signed it. “No, I don’t.”

“Then what…?” John frowned.

Sherlock raised his head and tilted it, listening. “McLaren is running some kind of book that you and I will have sex on Greg’s desk.” John grimaced. Sherlock gave the desk a look of disgust. “It looks horribly uncomfortable and I don’t think you’d enjoy it.”

“Greg certainly wouldn’t appreciate it.”

“Well, if I thought you’d like it, Greg’s opinon would hardly figure into my calculations.”

John laughed in spite of himself. Sherlock grinned at him.

“What bothers you is not that they are thinking about us having sex here,” observed Sherlock, “It bothers you that they would think you so unprofessional, and that this betrays a lack of respect for the work we do.”

John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock kept on going.

“What bothers _me_ is that while I agree with your reasoning in principle, I find myself thinking about holding your hand as we leave today.”

“You… do?”

“They can think what they want about the sex,” asserted Sherlock, “Top, bottom, I don’t really have time for their narrow speculations. People talk, I’ve told you. They do little else.” He leaned towards John. “What they speculate is their issue. What they should _know_ , however, is that we are… together. In this. In everything.”

And it was clear from his tone of voice that what he meant was _we are equals in everything_.

“You have no intention of keeping our relationship a secret,” said Sherlock next, and John knew him well enough to hear the faintest note of a question underneath it.

“Of course not. It’s not possible anyway, but even if it was – no secrets. I’m proud of us.”

Sherlock’s smile was that ridiculously joyful 2000 watt job he saved for John.

“Excellent.” He rose and held out his hand. John grinned and took it.

Greg opened the door, bearing two cups of police station coffee, and scowled at them. “You could at least have the decency to stay to drink the bloody stuff.”

“It’s awful,” Sherlock said, “You could use it to corrode steel. We have things to do. I’ll get back to you on the Durham case.”

“Terrific. You do that.” Greg turned and passed the coffees to a random officer to dispose of.

Sherlock held back to let John leave the office first, then followed, his hand still tucked into John’s, underneath, allowing John’s grasp to be dominant.

As they walked towards the lift, Sherlock adjusted his posture, dropping his shoulders slightly, shortening his stride to match John’s exactly. He lowered his head to say softly: “You’ll have to tell me what Anderson said to startle you so much. Did he make a correct deduction? Perhaps we should send a card.”

John laughed. “Much weirder than that,” he murmured back.

Sherlock did this odd little shift, and looked at John from under his lashes when John leaned forward to jab the lift button.

In all, Sherlock moved to make it clear to anyone observing that he and John were Together, and that while they were completely different, they were also in many ways perfectly balanced. His posture also said that while Sherlock was the genius, if there was a dominant relationship partner here, it was probably John. Thoughtful, steadfast, brave, even-tempered John.

Because what _really_ bothered Sherlock about whispers, and about speculation that others were too professional to express, was that anyone could in any way think less of John. What he wanted known was that while they may consider John _claimed_ somehow, Sherlock was equally claimed. That he belonged to John as surely as John belonged to him. That instead of finding a relationship cloying and restricting, as he had once believed, Sherlock found John both freeing and anchoring, and that was a paradox, but it was also true.

Sherlock wanted the people he worked with – idiots though they be - to understand that he and John were a _team_ , and that anyone who thought otherwise had to adjust their thinking. They had damned well better _respect_ John even if they hated Sherlock.

The lift opened and they stepped inside. When they turned to face the front, they switched the hands they were holding.

And even if John didn’t quite see how Sherlock was subtly making him the dominant partner, he knew that this, the holding hands on their way out of the office – meant something important. He smiled up at Sherlock and squeezed his hand. “Angelo’s, sweet thing?” he asked, sotto voce.

“Perfect, John,” Sherlock murmured back.

Anderson ran up just before the lift closed and thrust a flier at them. “Invite to the New Year’s party,” he said too quickly, “Be good to see you there, yeah? And…” He made himself look Sherlock in the eye. “Congratulations. You two. For…” He gestured towards their still joined hands.

The doors closed, leaving Sherlock wide eyed and John, worried. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“I see what you mean by… much weirder.” He frowned. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I… I’m just… I might have almost started….”

“Liking Anderson?”

“Not _hating_ him. It’ll pass.”

“Next crime scene,” said Sherlock, “Let us see what new atrocity awaits.”

“He might surprise us,” said John, feeling suddenly that he ought to be kinder.

“That would be splendid,” said Sherlock, “But I won’t hold my breath.”

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Unexpected [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6736099) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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